Love is a kind of warfare.
Sleep, thou repose of all things; sleep, thou gentlest of the deities; thou peace of the mind, from which care flies; who doest soothe the hearts of men wearied with the toils of the day, and refittest them for labor.
Grief brims itself and flows away in tears.
Majesty and love do not well agree, nor do they live together.
everything changes, nothing perishes
Keep a mid course between two extremes.